


Gegen Meinen Willen

by DavidBowieLeather (orphan_account)



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Distrust, Drugs, Drugs Made Them Do It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fetish, Future Tense, Hurt/Comfort, Knives, Light Masochism, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Multi, Object Penetration, Sexual Content, Truth, Truth Serum, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DavidBowieLeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Bill gets his hands on serum shit is the day Gustav worries for the life of the band members. He's relentless.<br/>(Story on hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gegen Meinen Willen

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Yeah. This work of mine is pretty terrible. I'm sorry. For anybody who wants to read it, do as you wish, although spelling and grammar mistakes are going to be heavily present, since I typed this on my phone. Enjoy... I hope?  
> This is only part of the fic.  
> Excuse me if my ratings and tags are incorrect, I've never posted fanfiction before.

When he'd imagined his desire, which hung between masochism and UST, he'd never dreamed of something so horrid and beyond his limitations.

It was becoming excruciating.

He couldn't take it much longer, and his head was suffering a severe torment from the constant, repetitive meeting with the wood of the table surface.

It hurt, shit yeah.

But it was a nice, almost tackling contradiction to his real pain.

He hurt. 

Georg's face was just a complete /human/, no, /physical/  
representation of a bloody war.

Maybe the Battle of the Somme.

He could feel the pain and agony etching itself into his skin, in the form of a blade sweeping along his cheekbones. Coupled with the awful penetrating thrusts from his attacker behind. He was impaled with such force, and his head was smacked into the table he sat at, right after each rancid kiss of the knife against his face.  
It was hardly arousing. It wasn't in any way.

"Sh-shit." He murmured, voice almost verbally nonexistent. Mouth moving minimally due to his tight-lipped confinement. He could hardly hold back that sound more than the others he was making; it was just dirty.  
His eyes squeezed shut. He ached. The knife was wet now, slick with his blood.  
He wanted it over.  
But over was a long way away.

/You like it, you cheap faggot. You want it up your ass, cutting you into two/.

"N-no. I can't..."

A whimper laced itself around and inbetween his trachea, up his windpipe and remained a constant tingling constraint there, strangling him from within. And then that knife was running along his skin, way in the department of his privates, and that was almost it.  
He shuddered, only to receive a stinging slap to his upper left thigh. Whether in disgust to his filthy, filthy human reactions, or to his defiance to the attacker/ intruder's very wrong guess at his desires in this predicament, he was not sure.  
All he was sure of currently was the pain. Fucking kinky pain.  
It was literally, more than figuratively, tearing him into two.  
He was fuming inside, there was an angry fire licking at his guts. Whatever memory of the reason he had for ending up here was just utterly devoured at that moment.  
Even if he could recall the reason, in no way would it compensate for the unfurling torture, or justify its happening.

He just had to run with the present occurrences and that was complete hell.

His attacker had now broke skin between his thighs, and the wet was mortifying and all things painful.  
Georg flinched. Needless to say, he was announcing his distress and the unbearable pain he was enduring, in a series of cries and just other things that may not even be in the dictionary. Shit, none of this that he was having to endure would be in the dictionary.

Georg wasn't even cuffed; he was being restrained some other non-physical /mental/ way. It was a degrading kind of thing. Something invisible was holding him there, it was nagging at him to indulge in this fucking shit.  
He was trying to scream, and a hoarse sort of sound was the result of that attempt. He was being ravaged at twice the speed from before, and his body was reacting in humiliating ways that were the opposite to his feelings of loathing.

Pain lanced through him. To the core and beyond-- whatever else also. It wasn't even a feeling, it was just a thing that was bolting along his nerves. The knife twisted, startlingly gently.  
"Urghh... Ah."  
He cried out, head tilting back with force. Stars burst bright in his lidded vision, exploding and scoring imprints into his eyelids.

He didn't enjoy this. His body did, and it was horribly absurd.

The knife slid down his leg.  
He was near tears.

~

"Hush."  
The sound had Georg upright in seconds, eyes opening with a start. The knife was gone. The vision dissipated to inhibit inactive parts of his brain for the now. He knew that tonight when he slept these parts would just regain activity and trigger nightmares in his unconsciousness.

Inevitably.

Even now, wide awake, he was sweating like a pig, flustered despite laying beneath the fatiguing yellow glow of the fortune teller's shop lights. His heart banged against his rib bones, his hands were playing a game of Twister with one another in his lap. This was weird as fuck, it couldn't be true. Nope. No. Just simply no. It wasn't even suitable for today's society. Nobody even took hooking that far anymore. People don't use knives anymore. Georg was certain of that, yes. He was no pain-lover of any kind, besides.

He let his eyes gain focus, still breathing loudly, and he became aware of the way Bill was looking down at him. With concern. Bill's cat-like eyes widened ever so slightly.  
"Hush, Georg." He repeated.  
Georg tried to reign in his breathing, tried to slow it. He just shook his head.

The fortune teller had long since left the room, so they were alone. But the ugly lighting definitely felt like it bore a similar presence to that old decaying specimen of a human. Georg was revolted at how the fortune teller's back arched over nearly ninety degrees. It was gross.

No. Coming here in the first place, playing by one of Bill's daft whims, was gross-er.  
And the way Bill was watching him made Georg want to throw up.

Yeah, Bill'd seen the bloody vision, too. He'd watched Georg with this pretentious scrutiny, looking half the time as if he wanted to laugh.  
And now he was staring at him with this shitty pretend concern.  
This was a joke.

"Are you okay?"

Georg shook his head again.

"C'mon. It's just a practical joke, it's not real." Bill was rolling his eyes-- concern dwindling.

"No." Georg said. It felt too real.

"It is. I told you I'd get you back for the last time you copped off with Tom, remember?"

"So, you took me here because you knew my "future" would be so horrid?" Georg eyed Bill. He was soon livid.

"It's /not/ your future. It's a joke-- lighten up." Bill threw a manicured hand out, exasperated suddenly.

Georg just laughed bitterly. "It felt real. I could feel it happening."

"You just have an over-active mind is all." Bill huffed. "Look, I took you here mainly out of curiosity... T-to embarrass you--"

Georg cut his eyes towards Bill's.

"Not like that. Georg, I had no idea it'd be something so... You know-- /bad/. I thought it'd be something mildly embarrassing--"  
"--And wasn't that mildly embarrassing..." Georg spat.

Bill just sighed. "I'm sorry. If that's what you want to hear. I didn't intend any of that. Obviously."

"Sure." Georg bit. "You couldn't even tear your eyes away."

"That was difficult to do, actually." Bill said.

"Why would that be?"

Bill just gave Georg a look, from which Georg could sense an undercurrent of /don't you even go there/s. 

He let out a small breath.  
"You'd better tell me when we're home."

Bill only rolled his eyes again. "Well, my definition of "home" is entirely different from yours. It isn't always a place of comfort, you know."

~

They were at it again.

Gustav's eyes cut to the left.

"Tom, I haven't touched it, I promise..." He said, for the umpteenth time now. Yet Tom was nowhere near convinced.

"Well who else would have? Out of all of us, you're the one most likely to go rummaging through all of my stuff. Shamelessly, too." Tom chewed his lip thoughtfully. "You're the only one I've told about it, too. I've not even told Bill."

And Bill was told everything. Not about the "fantasy-revealing" tabs, apparently. Wahrhaftigkeit tabs, as Gustav called them. Truthfulness tablets. Just some junk they'd picked up whilst on tour in London. They supposedly induced one to admit fantasies, although sometimes it could work with a twist. Apparently. Fantasies could be revealed indirectly, with some important aspects disfigured, altered. It was all a royal mess, really. Gustav had labelled the truthfulness tablets in German, simply because it was easier to identify. Warhaftigkeit.

Yeah. Much easier than some long English phrase.

Whether the junk worked or not, Gustav was quite willing to find out. What he was less eager to discover, was if the tabs fell into the wrong hands.

If Bill'd gotten his glittery paws on them, the whole band'd be doomed to shame.

Gustav shivered at the thought. If Bill ever slipped the tabs in his orangensaft, he'd blow more than a couple of internal fuses.

"Well, that doesn't mean it's me." Gustav gave Tom a barely-there roll of his eyes, speaking after a moment. It was tiring now, having to make Tom believe him.

"Stop fucking going round in circles about this. If that's going to be your only input, then I'll just assume you're lying." Tom retorted.

"Oh? That's hardly fair, Kartoffel."  
Gustav smirked. "I don't see what else I should say."

The action was so out of character that Tom ignored it altogether.

"Calling me a potato isn't going to help your case in any way. Finding out which idiot went rooting through my bedroom will, though. So, I suggest you get to work-- sooner, rather than later, or I'll have you."

Gustav didn't want to be had at all. He groaned.

"Where do I even start?"

Tom eyed him. "How about taking them out of your pockets and returning them to me."

Gustav sighed, but clung onto his resolve to refrain from refusing involvement in the whole situation. If he said anything that denied his involvement, like that, he doubted it'd make any positive difference.

"So, I'm an idiot, am I?" He said instead.

Tom gave the drummer a glare. "Only if you've taken my junk."

"If you say so. For all you know, you could have taken them yourself. And I don't mean from your room." Gustav added.

Tom didn't quite catch the inference, however, which Gustav deemed reasonable, since his charm for figurative speech was quite abstract. Too abstract for even Tom, a guy who himself was, half the time, mentally in a state very similar to that of his hair. Whether fueled by a late night round of "wham, bam, thank you, ma'am"s (perhaps also even a few "thank you, man"s) or something other like infinite shots of vodka, Gustav didn't know. And perhaps he also didn't care. Sometimes you just need to be around somebody crazy or over-active in a particular type of emotion to feel better about your own self-stability. The contrast did that mostly.

Right.

Not at the moment, however. Tom was looking at Gustav incredulously.

"Don't even start that, Schäfer. I'm off drugs now, and even if I wasn't, London's East End is hardly going to be my first call to get my hands on any goods."

"If you insist. At least my reason for blaming you was valid in any sort." Gustav pushed away from the wall Tom had backed him against, placing his hands on Tom's shoulders and pushing gently.

Tom gave Gustav another one of his grand, bug-eyed looks of incredulity. "Nope. You're evil." He pushed carefully back at Gustav, who feigned a rather exaggerated fall to the carpet.

He stared up at Tom. "You're really impractical, you know." He was biting his lip, repressing a smile. "This is getting us nowhere apart from the carpet." He threw his hands out.

"Well, I said that to you just a minute ago. Basically." Tom crossed his arms, then sank down to sit.

Gustav watched him for a moment. "But you're not practical, so, you didn't continue with a solution."

"Right." Tom huffed, not bothering with any unwanted comments.

Gustav was pleased at that. When Tom actually shut his yap for at least a few seconds, Gustav was able to resume his in-charge role, without having to play it down.

"Good. I figured we could blame either Bill or Georg, since they've both been out if the house for so long. Together, I presume."

"What if they don't come home together?" Tom asked.

"Then don't be fooled, Bill can be quite convincing sometimes. He could just tell Georg to arrive home before him." Gustav replied.

"Or he could just lie to Georg and stay at some hotel, so Georg wouldn't even know where he was." Tom clicked his fingers smugly. Kind of "see what I did there" style.

Gustav shook his head. "Nope. One, Bill wouldn't go to such great lengths to hide dumb tablets. Two: Georg never tells us anything that Bill tells him not to. We wouldn't be able to weasel anything out of Georg, so Bill wouldn't need to lie to him."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Alright smart-ass, I guess you're right."

Gustav just gave a small shrug. "Yeah. But I don't really know what we're going to do when they return."

"Punch 'em in the faces?" Tom offered, balling his fists in mock anger, punching the carpet softly.

"Maybe. If we don't think of anything else..."

~

Bill glanced over at Georg. They were standing in the wet streets of the smog-filled town, right outside the Arcade entrance. Rain was slashing down, and the cold of it bit into Bill's fingers, numbing them where he held tight onto his hood.  
Light wind swirled around them; the sky was dark and low.

"What." Georg huffed, noticing Bill eyeing him.

Bill gave a quick, light shrug. "Nothing. Just checking in on you." He said softly.

Georg didn't answer. He was in no mood to do so, anyhow.

They'd been awaiting the arrival of the taxi for some time now, and it was becoming a wretched bore.

Bill, however was more concerned about the temperature than the amount of time they'd spent waiting around.  
In fact, he really wanted to avoid going home for the moment, because he was unsure of what he was going to do with the whole tablet situation.

He could hide them in plain sight once he returned home? But returning home brought along difficulties.  
He sighed.

He'd been mulling it over all this time. Not just how he was going to get home unsuspected, but also just about Georg and his supposed fantasies.

Spanking. Knife play. UST. Masochism?

/Really, Georg?/ He thought. It just didn't seem believable in any way, shape, or form. Georg didn't seem like the kind of guy to be into knife play, or that level of masochism.

He was really curious.

"Georg." Bill whispered, voice barely audible.

Georg faced him, shifting his weight for a moment before looking Bill in the eye directly.

Bill swallowed. "You're not... Into that sort of thing, are you?"

He saw Georg falter for a minute. The bassist swept an autumn-coloured strand of hair behind his shoulder, his hands lingering at his throat momentarily. He cast his eyes away somewhere.  
"No."

Bill nearly raised an eyebrow. "Oh." He said. "You know what I'm on about, don't you?"

Georg looked at his shoes. "Sure."

"But are you sure you aren't into it?" Bill pressed.

"I don't know. You?" Georg was chewing his lower lip.

"Uh..." Bill drifted, taken aback somewhat. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you ask me that when I just asked you?"

Georg raised a shoulder. "Answer my question and I'll return the favour."

"But I asked you a question first." Bill answered, slightly impatiently.

"Well, alright. What was your question?" Georg reasoned.

"Are you sure you aren't into that kinky stuff?"

"I told you I don't know." Georg drawled. "Since that's my future, I guess I won't know until later."

"That wasn't exactly your--" Bill began, but he was cut off by the loud beep of a large taxi as it swung around the road beside St. Pancras station to their part of the path. It rolled to a stop beside them.

Georg sighed visibly in relief. To Bill, it looked quite like the bassist wanted to escape him. Which was acceptable. Although, what he really wanted to do was lock him up in a room and dangle a metaphorical key in front of his face. The key would represent 'tell me if you're into that kinky shit, or not'. Yeah. And he'd also tease Georg with the actual key to the door, just to make him realise that the only way he'd be escaping was if he admitted to those supposed desires.

But, nah. He couldn't see that happening at all-- what, with Gustav and Tom lurking around at the house. Right now they were also doing that.  
Bill sighed.

He and Georg clambered into the taxi, Bill quickly chucking a wad of cash at the driver's head.  
The car set off.

**Author's Note:**

> This thing is just... bad. But I'm still going to write it, either way.


End file.
